


Cock It And Pull It

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Friendship, Injury, M/M, Male Slash, Teamwork, Violence, Workplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 07:37:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1849810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Royal House Company get things done, usually very violent things. D’Artagnan, with his honed shooting skills and nasty temper, fits right in, especially with Athos’ team. They all have a past, they all enjoy their work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cock It And Pull It

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a lyric from the song 'Sugar, We're Going Down' by Fall Out Boy.

 

 

“Twenty seconds until target is in view.”

 

“I _know,_ Cousin.”

 

“Then get a move on.”

 

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth and snapped the last piece of his firearm into place. The silencer was definitely attached – he wasn't going to forget that again, not after the last time. He crouched at the window, only just ajar, and looked through the scope. There she was, wearing a yellow coat that might as well have been a bullseye. It made his job so much easier.

 

Constance cleared her throat, a signal that she was no longer alone. Possibly Treville or maybe one of the Cardinals' employees had 'just dropped by' to see how the mission was progressing. They did that a lot; apparently it was to demonstrate to shadowy figures higher up the food chain that the two groups could not only coexist but work together well within the same company. It was more likely that they were actually trying to covertly gather evidence that the Musketeers should be disbanded.

 

D'Artagnan occasionally dreamt about putting a bullet through the Cardinal's eye socket. It would make his life, and the life of his fellow Musketeers, a lot easier.

 

But apparently killing one of the most influential men in the company was not permitted. For now. D'Artagnan had a gun and ammunition all picked out, just in case.

 

“I have the shot,” he murmured, barely audible.

 

There was a pause; Constance would no doubt be double-checking with Treville. Sometimes, at this point, jobs were called off, because something vital had changed, like payment hadn't been made or an agreement had been reached that negated the need for a bullet. Not this time.

 

“You're confirmed.”

 

D'Artagnan grunted in acknowledgement and watched Mallory Clarkson say goodbye to a friend outside a café. She became part of the crowd that peopled the busy street, but he could still pick her out. As he exhaled, he squeezed the trigger. Mallory dropped like a stone, space growing around her as several people stopped and tried to help her. There was a vivid splash of red amongst her blonde hair.

 

“Taken,” d'Artagnan reported, already breaking down his gun.

 

“Awaiting completion confirmation.”

 

Someone from the company would be part of the crowd and would check for a pulse. Someone else would be at the hospital to check the morgue, or if necessary, the wards where the job really would be completed. Accidents happened in hospitals all the time. The company were very good at them.

 

D'Artagnan slid his kit box into his battered backpack and stripped off his dark shirt and beanie to stuff in there too. He pulled on a not-quite-faded band t-shirt, his hair appropriately tousled as he left the room. The backpack clung to one shoulder. D'Artagnan descended the stairs and nipped out of a side exit that seemed to be part of the restaurant next door. Nobody gave him a second glance.

 

He jammed an iPod ear bud into his free ear and hummed as though listening to music. “On the move.”

 

He looked like any number of students that were milling around, fiddling with their phones or chatting. He only felt faintly amused when he glanced at them. He looked like them, he could hold a conversation with them, but he didn't belong at their colleges or universities.

 

“Completion confirmed.”

 

D'Artagnan smiled up into the glare of the sun and ambled away from where the daughter of an oil magnet had suddenly inexplicably fallen.

 

“Put the kettle on.”

 

“Ha.”

 

But he could tell that Constance was smiling. Good, that meant there was a good chance Athos had returned. A post-debriefing fuck sounded like a great idea.

 

*

 

Aramis looked strange without his goatee, but the job had called for him to look totally different. D'Artagnan had an arm around Athos' waist and was trying not to stare at Aramis. It was basic protocol, but surprisingly difficult. Athos squeezed a warning hand at his hip.

 

“You're being obvious.”

 

D'Artagnan laughed and leaned in to kiss Athos. This kind of job was the only time that Athos ever permitted PDA during work hours. A very frustrating rule, but d'Artagnan got that Athos liked to have very clear boundaries and no distractions. Considering his past, it really wasn't surprising. But d'Artagnan still found it unbelievably frustrating, so he was enjoying the exception to the rule while it lasted.

 

“He looks so...”

 

“Wrong,” chirped Constance in his ear firmly. “Completely wrong.”

 

Athos smiled a little, his earpiece tuned in to Constance as well. “But he is unrecognisable.”

 

“There is that. If this was Yellow’s mission, we'd have to cut his hair.”

 

She sounded way too gleeful about that. And why was that his call sign tonight again? “I don’t like you anymore.”

 

“You love me, shithead.” There was a clatter of computer keys. “In sight.”

 

Constance had the luxury of a wider view thanks to the club's poorly-firewalled security feed so she was bound to get first eyes on the target. There he was, Blane Turner, tall, redheaded, dour expression. Aramis wasn't quite his type, but handing over the target’s precise desire on a plate was bound to be suspicious in hindsight. Aramis could turn anyone's head though, goatee or not, and he was leaning against the bar, laughing with the barman, when Blane went to get a drink. Give him a few minutes and Aramis would have drawn Blane into a conversation.

 

D'Artagnan twisted so that he was facing Athos, adjusting Athos’ sightlines and so giving him a better view of Aramis and Blane. Athos’ smile was amused, his free hand combing leisurely through d’Artagnan’s hair – fuck you, Constance, no job was worth a haircut. He liked his hair long; it reminded him of old photos of his dad.

 

Athos hummed, Aramis was being led onto the dancefloor by Blane. So he’d decided to play someone who needed persuading, that’d look good when people started reviewing surveillance tapes. D’Artagnan was playing a somewhat sloppy drunk, it gave him an excuse to look around wildly and bump into people. He’d lifted a few wallets already, thefts that would be useful when Blane was discovered without his valuables. Porthos had laughed, claiming that no acting would be required by d’Artagnan at all if he had to be a sloppy drunk. Porthos was still sore that he didn’t get to watch Aramis at work tonight; Treville needed him on point for something else.

 

D’Artagnan turned most of his attention back to Athos; he looked like someone who was looking forward to a good night out after a hard week. He wore patched worn jeans that were snug at the waist, and a t-shirt that showed off his arms. There was a smudge of kohl at the edges of his eyes that d’Artagnan found very distracting. He already had plans for later on.

 

“Eyes front,” Constance reminded him with taunting amusement.

 

D’Artagnan pulled a face, as though the shot he’d just downed tasted worse than he’d expected. He’d drunk enough to destabilise most people, but he’d had better training than that. It was all part of their grand exit.

 

Athos was looking at him fondly. D’Artagnan liked to think it wasn’t part of the act.

 

Amid some very interesting dancing, Blane had decided to head to the men’s room. Aramis had offered to get another drink. Blane’s hands had lingered at Aramis’s waist before he’d left and Aramis had gone to the bar, the barman teasing him. Aramis had spent the last few weeks becoming a regular here; he was not going to be the stranger nobody knew and that the police would have questions for.

 

That was d’Artagnan’s cue. He pushed away from Athos, stumbling a little, gaining Athos’ steadying hands and his amusement, before he leaned in for an appropriately unskilled kiss.

 

“That’s why this isn’t your job,” Constance told him, sounding extremely unimpressed. “Tell me that’s not how you always kiss him, _please_.”

 

D’Artagnan growled, he was going to get her back for that. Athos bit his lip in warning. D’Artagnan pulled away with the cheery glazed expression found in bars the world over.

 

“I need to, yeah, don’t go anywhere.”

 

D’Artagnan staggered off to the men’s room. There was an unknown man at the urinals; Blane had to be using a stall. So d’Artagnan cheerfully unzipped his jeans, humming tunelessly until there was the tell-tale thump of a body hitting the floor. He turned with hazy interest, clocking the body half-in-half-out of the stall, the door hadn’t even been closed properly. The man next to him had seen it too, it was pretty impossible to miss.

 

“Hey, don’t lie down there. Never get the stains out,” d’Artagnan sort of slurred.

 

The stranger was already heading for the bathroom door, looking spooked. Good, security would be called soon then. For now, d’Artagnan was still on camera so he meandered over to the stall and poked the body with his foot. No response, a good sign. The idea was for Blane to be injured seriously enough to get his agency’s attention – don’t fuck with us.

 

D’Artagnan bent down to get a woozily close look, the cameras embedded in his buttons taking photographs for later use. Blane still had a pulse but he was outcold. The drug had worked, it was virtually untraceable and if it was followed back to its source, then an abandoned factory in Canada had a lot to answer for, its owners all but dust now themselves. D’Artagnan shrugged as though he couldn’t work out why the body wasn’t talking to him and staggered out of the door. Security pushed past him and d’Artagnan let himself be led away by Athos, who appeared to be supporting him so that he could walk in a straight line.

 

“There’s somebody in there who’s not talking. S’rude.”

 

“I’m sure.”

 

Once outside, d’Artagnan didn’t drop the act. Constance was keeping them updated continually – an ambulance had been called, Aramis was talking to security who were also talking to the barman, he’d unknowingly corroborate Aramis’ fake backstory. It was a couple of streets before Athos raised a hand as though signalling for a taxi, a dark cab then obligingly pulled up. D’Artagnan was helped into the backseat where he became abruptly sober. Porthos grinned at them from behind the wheel. His job must have finished early.

 

“So the party’s over”

 

“Thank God, because the beer in there was disgusting,” d’Artagnan opines.

 

Porthos laughed. “You were swimming in shots, what the hell would you know about the beer?”

 

D’Artagnan’s smile was pleased and smug. “Athos drank it.”

 

Porthos smirked and gave a little salute towards Athos, their leader in the field and unofficially everywhere else too, if d’Artagnan was honest. Treville didn’t have a problem with that, other people did though. So what would happen if the company suddenly decided to split up the team? D’Artagnan frowned, Athos’ hand heavy on his knee – the mission was over, PDA was permitted now.

 

He didn’t want anyone else.

 

*

 

Athos was the first person from the company to approach d’Artagnan. One day outside a café, he just sat down at d'Artagnan's table and without any small talk, revealed that he admired d’Artagnan’s marksmanship, that he found d’Artagnan’s history in amateur competitions impressive. He also revealed that he knew d’Artagnan had a teenage martial-arts background as well as a few marks on his criminal record for stealing and violently flying off the handle. He’d put someone in hospital on one memorable occasion.

 

Athos offered him a job that would hone, refine, and make good use of all of that. He also lightly warned d’Artagnan that telling anybody about this would not end well and that no evidence would be found of any of it. He then disappeared. D’Artagnan was struck by the graceful way that Athos moved and his intense expression and demeanour, there was something about him even then that d'Artagnan had been drawn to and wanted more of. He thought about calling the number on the business card that Athos had left behind because he really didn't have that many work options available – stealing day to day only just kept him afloat and he was sick of washing dishes and peeling veg - and he wanted to see Athos again. Maybe he could find out if Athos was a decent shot because that really would make him obscenely hot. Then an astonishingly beautiful woman sat down opposite him.

 

D’Artagnan had never met a more beautiful woman. He was almost hypnotised by her, which yes, he got mocked for a lot later on. She revealed that her name was Milady de Winter (not true) and that he should know some very interesting information before considering Athos' job offer (also not true).

 

She recited a website address for him to memorise and left after telling him to meet her in the same place at the same time tomorrow.

 

Thanks to the café’s free wi-fi and a stolen iPhone, d'Artagnan soon got access to the website. It was plain and empty except for a security footage video that revealed a man who was almost certainly Athos firing the shot that had killed d’Artagnan’s father during a robbery the previous month. D'Artagnan stare and stared some more. The next day, he accepted the job Milady offered him, his body tense and furious. He killed for her, working for money and because he'd been promised that he'd get his hands on Athos.

 

And yes, he slept with her. Some people still wouldn’t let him forget that he’d been effectively honey-trapped by Athos’ ex-wife.

 

That didn’t come out until later, after he'd almost succeeded in killing Athos. He couldn’t do that from far away, no matter how good a shot he was, he wanted to see Athos’ life bleed out up close. Milady approved and said that she looked forward to seeing that. She really did look as though she meant it.

 

D’Artagnan cornered Athos one night, when Athos was so drunk that he apparently didn’t remember his previous meeting with d’Artagnan. D’Artagnan all-too-eagerly took advantage, dancing with him, heat traitorously building inside his belly. When he led Athos out of the club into a dark side alley and was about to finally slid a knife between his ribs, a gun was suddenly pressed to his throat.

 

“Who sent you?”

 

That was how he met Porthos and Aramis. They never allowed Athos to truly drink alone and Athos was revealed as not as drunk as he’d seemed. All three had stony faces and were clearly extremely capable, armed or otherwise. D’Artagnan only tried to get away once. Then, bruised and battered, he spat out his story.

 

Athos shook his head slowly, true regret lacing his words. “I’m sorry, but that’s not my work.”

 

D’Artagnan laughed bitterly and described the footage he’d seen, accidentally revealing the name of the woman who’d given it to him. Athos’ expression twitched in a way that spoke volumes, Porthos and Aramis both glanced at him. It was Aramis who broke the silence.

 

“So Athos’ guilt was supplied to you by his ex-wife.”

 

Things became a lot more complicated after that. Athos was exonerated thanks to a rock-solid alibi – he was in South America at the time, company audio and visual recordings confirmed it. The footage Milady had told him about was scrutinised and became part of a year-long investigation into a group who had recently made an unfortunately lucrative career out of imitating the Musketeer corps.

 

Nobody found out that Milady was one of the Cardinal’s most invisible employees until some months later, and even then, nothing could be proved. Athos' team saw her carrying out what they were sure was the Cardinal's instructions, but they had no solid evidence, they still didn't. So any attempts to accuse one of the most powerful men in the company of planning a takeover and ordering kills for his own gain were unfortunately nixed, for now.

 

D’Artagnan joined the company, choosing to apprentice with the Musketeers and with the team that Athos regularly led into the field. Less than two months later they were sleeping together.

 

*

 

The tiles were slippery. D'Artagnan cursed in Danish, a muscular arm tightening around his throat and almost succeeding in totally cutting off his air supply. His bare feet couldn't get a decent grip on the wet tiles either and his assailant was wearing shoes with a decent treadpattern. Fuck.

 

D'Artagnan couldn't even get enough breath to let Constance know what kind of help he needed. But as she was currently frantically saying his name and swearing like a sailor, he knew that she had some idea. D'Artagnan gurgled. Aramis and Porthos were still dealing with the personal guard in a nearby building and Athos was ensuring that Miko's father was distracted. Miko's bodyguard was another matter, as d'Artagnan was finding out. Oh God, he was starting to get spots in front of his eyes and nothing he was doing was making the bodyguard's grip loosen.

 

The man grunted suddenly, his attention unexpectedly stolen. D'Artagnan took advantage of the tiny moment and shoved back hard. Both of them tumbled into the nearby swimming pool. D'Artagnan found that he could fight out of the man's meaty grip surprisingly easily now, his own clothes – swimming shorts and a t-shirt – also gave him the upper hand. He forced the man's head underwater, holding him there until the man's thrashing body went slack. As the man sank, d'Artagnan noticed a bone-handled blade stuck in the body's back. He pulled it out – he could still remember the first time that he'd seen Athos use that very knife along with its twin to extraordinary effect. Actually, seeing Athos use those knives so brilliantly might have been when d’Artagnan had irrevocably thought yes, he _really_ wanted this man.

 

D'Artagnan swam to the side of the pool and hauled himself out. Athos stood a short distance away, a blade held ready to throw in one hand and a gun braced for firing in the other. D'Artagnan scanned him for injuries and then scowled as he stripped off his own sodden t-shirt, his voice still hoarse from the choking.

 

“I had him.”

 

Athos raised an eyebrow, accepting his bone-handled knife back. “Really.”

 

“Yes, really.” d'Artagnan tapped his earpiece once. “Sister, can you hear me?”

 

“What the _fuck_ just happened?”

 

D'Artagnan winced but could discern worry in Constance’s voice beneath the fury. “The prince had an unexpected friend with him. Completion confirmed.”

 

“This real-time feed has to... _fuck_ , okay, a second team are only two minutes out. The rest of your team is waiting for you at the back of their building.”

 

“I'll buy you a drink later.”

 

“You'll buy me a brewery.”

 

She hung up with as much ceremony as usual. It never bothered d'Artagnan during work hours – Constance had a job to do and so did he. It wasn’t her he was angry with anyway. He clenched his jaw and stomped off towards the pool's side door, to retrieve his secreted spent gun and the clothes that he'd worn when silencing Miko Hanoi. Athos matched his steps, checking every which way for surprises. It was turning into that sort of mission.

 

D'Artagnan couldn't keep quiet though, no way. He was not going to be treated like some fumbling idiotic _rookie_ ; he'd earned more respect than that. “I was handling it.”

 

Athos treated him to a long considering stare. “Like I did in Glasgow?”

 

D'Artagnan was speechless for a moment, his anger momentarily stalled. In Glasgow, Athos had gotten badly cut up – his back still bore the scars – due to bad intel and what he'd been sure was Milady's invisible interference. She was terrifyingly set on him dying horribly in the field. Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan had arrived in time to fell his opponents. Aramis had then used copious amounts of liquid stitches and butterfly bandages to keep Athos expertly held-together until they got him to a company medic. D'Artagnan had shot at least two men who'd been stabbing Athos in ways that could have meant punctured lungs or kidneys or _something_ vital. His hands had trembled afterwards but he'd made the shots.

 

The four of them had piled into bed together that night, for their own peace of mind and to make sure that Athos didn't drink while on strong medication. In the morning, d'Artagnan had woken up to the sight of Aramis kissing Porthos in that slightly desperate way that he'd recognised all too clearly. He'd felt like doing the same to Athos, so he did.

 

And now, Athos was looking at him like he was thinking about breaking his own PDA rule. D'Artagnan wanted to stay angry, shoving the wet t-shirt and swim shorts into the waiting bag, unselfconsciously naked in public as he grabbed and then pulled on a creased _Avengers_ t-shirt and camouflage shorts. He _hated_ being treated like a helpless kid. He was the youngest, but that didn't make him incapable, in need of constant supervision or rescuing.

 

Only Athos was telling him that that wasn't the case, not this time anyway. D'Artagnan hissed out a sigh and strode off towards the back of the neighbouring building where Aramis and Porthos were apparently waiting for them, bag on his back, bare feet not registering the hot tarmac.

 

“We're a team,” Athos reminded him quietly. “It's what we do.”

 

It was. Porthos never got angry about someone making sure that he stayed breathing. He got crabby if someone took a shot that he saw as his, but Aramis was the same way. D'Artagnan was sure that there was some kind of competition going on between the two of them, Constance always rolled her eyes when talking about the pair of them but she furiously defended them whenever the Cardinal's men made snide comments about the Musketeers not taking their work seriously.

 

The Musketeers had stopped making biting comments about d'Artagnan's age several months into his apprenticeship when they'd witnessed him successfully garrotting a man twice his size. They still mocked him for his youth though, like they mocked Athos for his stoicism, Aramis for his frequent florid love affairs, and Porthos for his appetite. It was affectionate banter and d'Artagnan always gave as good as he got. It was familiar workplace background now, an essential levelling ordinariness.

 

Curiously, it wasn't the verbal comments that really got to d'Artagnan. It was the other more subtle indicators; stuff that seemingly confirmed his constant hated assumptions that the people he was closest to didn’t think he was good enough, that they were policing his every move, especially Athos, no doubt a trait leftover from his brother’s death and the burned remains of his marriage to Milady. Even knowing that didn’t dampen the spike of d’Artagnan’s long-held loathing of being patronised and undervalued. His temper hadn't gotten all that much better, it was mostly an asset on the job.

 

Porthos and Aramis were waiting in a small car, the engine running. Aramis had a split lip but he was smiling as Athos and d'Artagnan climbed in and Porthos hit the gas.

 

“So you had some fun.” Aramis twisted around in his seat.

 

D'Artagnan shrugged a shoulder. “Miko’s friend took a swim.”

 

“And Miko?”

 

“Disposed of as requested.”

 

Porthos glanced briefly towards Athos. “Callaghan?”

 

“Sauna.”

 

There was contented quiet for a moment, as though there wasn't a vibe of frustrated stalled tension between the lovers sharing the backseat. But Aramis was humming as though he was ignoring them for the moment, to give them time to sort this out before he waded in. The last time they’d argued to this kind of stiff silence, Porthos had told them to sort it the fuck out; did they want Treville to split up the team? If the Cardinal caught a sniff of any kind of Musketeer rift, he’d exploit it ferociously. He’d tell the King.

 

That was one of d’Artagnan’s rare fears – losing Athos, losing the team.

 

Aramis turned the car radio on, pulling a face when country music started blaring. Strung tight with tension, exhaustion, and the last burns of anger, d'Artagnan looked over at Athos, who was looking right back. d’Artagnan swallowed, the idea of not working side by side with Athos made his stomach painfully clench and roll.

 

Athos was one of the first people at the company who’d taken him seriously. Sometimes d’Artagnan got so caught up in his work-related frustration that he actually forgot about that. Athos had always wanted him to survive, to _thrive_ even, as much as d’Artagnan came to want the same for him.

 

It wasn’t always about d’Artagnan’s age or Athos’ past. Together, they were more than that.

 

D’Artagnan slid a hand across the space between them and left it lying on the faded leather. There was the hint of something soft in Athos’ expression. His fingers rested firmly on top of d’Artagnan’s. D’Artagnan could feel the scars that riddled Athos’ skin, he knew all their stories.

 

Aramis winked at him and sang along to Carrie Underwood, his hand doing distracting things high up on Porthos’ thigh.

 

“…My Momma would be so ashamed.”

 

*

 

Treville had been smoking again. There might have been a nicotine patch on his arm now but there was also the recognisable whiff of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes and skin. His wife wasn't going to be happy.

 

Everybody had secrets.

 

Aramis wrote terrible poetry. The only company employee who knew about that was Porthos, Aramis had written terrible poetry about him several times. He recited it, in English and Spanish, during particular difficult moments, knowing that Porthos wouldn’t appreciate biblical verse. Once, there’d been a particularly rough skin-scraping brawl which had been set off as a distraction so that Athos could get a job done without people noticing. But the brawl had quickly become a fight for survival. Aramis, who had been back-to-back with Porthos, had begun declaring love and admiration in admittedly awful prose as they’d fought. He’d been sure that there were worse things to hear in such a circumstance.

 

After they’d survived, they had drinks with Athos before retiring to one of their bolthole flats. Aramis had whispered poetry and endless desperation, _fuck, if you die..._ into Porthos' skin, the cool metal of his ever-present cross necklace another point of vital contact between them. He had taken his time with Porthos, sweetly and slowly working him open, savouring every noise the bigger man had made, before pushing in, the two of them face-to-face, intently drinking each other in as though they might not have gotten the chance again.

 

Porthos had a line from one of Aramis' poems tattooed around his right ankle. He had told Treville about it for his file – the 'identifying marks' section was fucking important. But nobody but Porthos and Aramis knew the phrase's origin.

 

Porthos chewed his nails and preferred using his hands over any man-made weapon. He wore gloves and he was fucking gorgeously good at hand-to-hand, but yes, his preference did increase the risk of trace evidence being left behind. Porthos argued however that every job was a risk, because of shell casings, because of possible witnesses. If you got caught, the company might get you out or it might make sure that you didn’t talk ever again. Porthos was prepared for both scenarios, because he knew that he wouldn’t have to deal with whatever happened alone. It wasn’t official company policy; it was how their team operated.

 

Athos' team knew about Milady, they knew that she'd once been Anne, his wife, and that she could expertly change who she was and even more expertly puppeteer people. They didn't know about his parents, the house that he'd once called home, the precious times that he'd spent with his brother looking up at the stars, a bottle of wine between them. Athos was built out of secrets, some of them were known by the very few people he trusted, his team.

 

D'Artagnan learned how to shoot on his parents' farm, he'd been able to knock down cans by the time he was ten. His dad had been pleased; he'd said it'd good for when foxes and other pests came calling. D'Artagnan sometimes found himself thinking about his father's smile and the smell of his mum's fruit pies and the dirt baked into their dry hands. It was the kind of place that surrounded you, even when you weren't there anymore.

 

Everybody knew about the infamous time that Constance was attacked. She'd been waiting in her husband's workshop when someone had tried to grab her – whether they’d originally wanted her husband but settled for her or if she'd been the intended target all along was still unknown. She'd shouted and stabbed her attacker in the thigh with a pair of pinking shears. But very few people knew that when she was walking home from the pub a couple of weeks later, two men suddenly appeared and confronted her close to the train station. They could have been anyone. They told her that if she kept working so tirelessly and _inventively_ for the Musketeers then her husband would suffer and so would the team that she spent so much time with, they'd start with the young one. It'd be easier if she just started being helpful, she could begin by handing over very specific information to them on a regular basis.

 

She punched one of her assailants and sprayed the other one in the eyes with the pepper spray that she always kept on her. She tried to tear the coverings from their faces, but they kicked her and held her, hands wandering purposefully, breath heavy in her ears. They told her to _think_ about it, before they run off. Afterwards Constance pored over the CCTV footage, shaken but clenched. Her husband didn’t try to talk her out of her job; he poured her a drink and dug his strong clever fingers into her back and shoulders. Then he held her hand and somehow continued his own work beside her, sketching out new prototype clothing designs while overspilling with commentary. Did she think that neoprene would work for this?

 

Constance pressed close. Later she told Treville a clipped version of what'd happened, handing over the footage. Her expression asked that she not be treated any differently. She kept his cigarette habit a secret for him, didn’t she? The men were never caught, but Constance could still feel eyes on her when she walked to or from work and she was sure that someone was frequently going through her mail.

 

*

 

D'Artagnan first met Constance at company headquarters, which were outwardly glossy and impressive; its financial department had always been the perfect overall cover. As far as anybody on the street knew, RHC - the Royal House Company - was a very successful investment firm. Constance was the one who told d’Artagnan the details that nobody else had mentioned, because new recruits didn't always last and the less they knew the better. But Constance apparently liked him or maybe she was sick of both his questions and his ignorance because a month into his apprenticeship, she handed him half a packet of custard creams and a strong cup of tea and talked to him as she typed and concentrated on three different screens at once. D'Artagnan’s general feeling around Constance was always one of awe, at her multitasking, her energy, and at how unafraid she was to slap Aramis whenever he said something that she really didn't approve of.

 

She told d'Artagnan that he wouldn't ever learn some people's names – the man who ran the entire organisation, for example, a role that he’d inherited from his father, was known only as the King and was rarely see. Then there was the Cardinal and Treville, also known as the Captain, the men that the King trusted to get the actual jobs done. They both had their favourites among the company's employees and eventually two groups within the Royal House Company were more officially formed. Treville and the Cardinal had startling different viewpoints on what constituted a job well done.

 

“They work for the same goals, mostly, but don't make the mistake of thinking that this isn't a war,” Constance stated matter-of-factly, taking a sip of coffee, her gaze clear and intense.

 

“So how does any work get done?”

 

“If the work didn’t get done, it wouldn’t be much of a war, would it? They can work together, just not often, for everyone’s sake.”

 

D'Artagnan drank some tea and then dunked a custard cream in it. “So who should I join up with?”

 

Constance gave him a scalding look. “That's your choice, not mine.”

 

D'Artagnan knew that the team he was shadowing were Musketeers; he also knew that they really enjoyed their work, that they were definitely on that knife-edge of crazy that was very familiar to him, and that they weren’t intent on clawing their way up the company. They focused on staying alive and staying together, on following and completing Treville's orders, though Treville allowed them some leeway, they could call him Treville as well as Captain and he accepted questioning and arguments (in confidence) if there was a supportable position for a dissenting view. He didn't want drones, but he wanted loyalty and intelligence.

 

D'Artagnan fitted in amongst Athos' team, he liked them too, and once he knew that Milady was one of the Cardinal's unseen employees, he stayed away from that side of the company. There was a lot that the Cardinal didn't tell the King, that Constance was sure of. She kept a very close eye on communications and when she had time, she tried to piece together what she’d recorded into something that might one day resemble strong unopposable evidence. It was a secret job that wasn’t likely to reach a triumphant conclusion any time soon, but Constance still kept plugging away at it. She was loyal to the Musketeers, she defended and supported them, but she also always told them when she thought that they were out of line. Treville approved of her frequent skewering of their pride and he took all of Constance's notes seriously.

 

D'Artagnan asked her if Constance was her real name, if Treville was really Treville. She gave him a withering look, it was her only reply.

 

Her husband designed speciality clothing for the company's employees, made of silent sleek fabrics, cut to conceal all manner of secrets. He and Constance often argued and d'Artagnan was never sure just how happy they were together – the only frame of reference he had for a happy marriage was his parents and they'd never shouted that much.

 

But he did see Constance wear with pride some beautiful outfits designed by her husband – occasionally because she was needed in the field, she carried out those missions without any outward hint of unhappiness – and he'd also witnessed how often her husband's eyes softened around Constance. So something in there worked.

 

D'Artagnan didn't get it, but then he knew that Constance didn't entirely understand his relationship with Athos either - “Has he ever _smiled_ at you? Properly I mean?” She liked Athos though, because he was a gentleman and because he openly and genuinely appreciated her constant hard work.

 

She was one of the few people at work that d’Artagnan was actually friends with, the others being his team of course. She told d'Artagnan when he was doing well and always poured him another glass of wine. She was often tired, but she was always there, speaking in his ear, hands busy, everything recorded, her own notes carefully locked away on a secure server. She was focused and always kept a room in her house free for d'Artagnan, it was sparse and impersonally decorated with no hint that he’d ever slept there, though he had many times. It was there when he needed it.

 

*

 

He’d managed to fasten the belt around his calf like a tourniquet, despite his hands being so slippery with blood. He’d managed to drag himself into a sheltered alcove and he had a couple of rounds of ammunition left. His blades were still sharp. He was sure that he’d been in worse spots before, probably.

 

He spat and tried his earpiece again. “Venus, do you copy? I need a carrier, repeat I need a carrier.”

 

D’Artagnan let his head fall back to rest against the wall that was holding him up. “Please.”

 

He thought hazily about the gymnastic moves that he’d recently had to pull off to escape more perforation. He hadn’t possessed any trained elastic agility until he'd joined the company and had been put through their intense gruelling training, a short programme because they'd needed his skills in the field as soon as possible. He remembered the stuffy halls that he’d trained in on those thin crash mats, how to use a body to its fullest extent. He thought that he’d known everything about himself before joining the company, what he was capable of and how to use it. Yeah, he’d been wrong. He could admit that now.

 

His leg felt more and more like it was on fire but he gritted his teeth and ignored it. Fuck. Aramis and Porthos were only a floor below, that crash could be one of Porthos’ specialities – chucking the nearest piece of furniture at a group that he needed to floor fast, so clearly covering their tracks wasn’t a priority anymore – and Athos was…Where was Athos?

 

Athos was somewhere, something all right.

 

Urgh, d’Artagnan shook his head and checked the tourniquet, it was holding nicely. Athos’ kisses always tasted of wine and he said so much with his hands, he didn’t need the mountain of words that everyone else used. One night he’d lain beside d’Artagnan and had told him about his brother Thomas, the bright beautiful one whom everybody had adored. Athos had loved him too. Milady had killed him, for them, she had claimed later, and because Thomas had wanted to hurt her. To save her own skin, Athos had always countered, because Thomas had discovered who she really was.

 

Athos carried a lot of guilt on his shoulders, a lot of it bore Thomas' name.

 

He wasn't going to carry d'Artagnan's name too. D'Artagnan tried to lever himself up, but the pain was too much. He cursed his aching body and slumped back. He'd have to wait, wait to be rescued. He laughed bitterly.

 

He'd been planning on getting a new tattoo, something that would ring around his left bicep. He'd been thinking of a blade design, a blade with a bone handle.

 

Someone was shouting. D'Artagnan tensed, one hand on his gun, the other on a long-bladed knife. He recognised the sound of a body hitting the floor. He wished that he could still hear Constance's voice.

 

He wished that his team was with him, he wished that Athos...

 

Obstinate and controlled, sharp-edged and fucking beautiful in motion, any motion. He _smiled_ at d'Artagnan, he reached for him. The thought was cherry-bright on d'Artagnan's tongue. Athos.

 

D’Artagnan was passing out. He tried to rouse himself, pressing a thumb to his injured calf, the resulting burning pain making him shudder. He was awake, he was definitely awake.

 

Whatever happened, he wasn't a dishwasher anymore. He was still a scavenger though, a scavenger among scavengers. A fucking victor.

 

There were those footsteps again. D'Artagnan raised his gun. His smile was triumphant and bright with blood.

 

_-the end_


End file.
